


Salt on the Lip

by blushamatic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Drinkin' Beers, F/F, Face-Sitting, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Restraint, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushamatic/pseuds/blushamatic
Summary: A long, hot night in the garage. A stubborn engine. A fresh haircut. And a whole lot of sexual tension in desperate need of resolving.





	1. Chapter 1

Sloane tasted salt on her lip. This hot, windless night had her sweating bullets. She wicked the droplet of sweat away with her tongue and groaned—nothing she did to this goddam engine seemed to work.

She stood, wiping grease from her palms, and paced the garage. Her shoulders felt tight as bowstrings. She needed to relax, not keep banging away at this hunk of trash.

She needed Hurley there.

She needed Hurley’s brain on this problem. She needed her to look over the wagon with that placid expression of hers, that keen stare, and find the thing Sloane had missed. Most importantly, she needed Hurley to talk her down from torching this wagon altogether.

(There was that time she’d spent half an hour on a stubborn lug nut and nearly chucked a wrench through the garage window. Just before the wrench left her hand, Hurley had appeared from nowhere and seized Sloane’s forearm in her fist, halting it mid-throw. “None of that shit in here, okay?” she’d commanded.)

(Sloane remembered, now, that hot feeling that had bloomed somewhere below her gut in that moment when she realized just how strong Hurley was. Those forearms, dotted with freckles and burn scars, could have her on the ground in an instant. Not many girls could throw Sloane around. Hurley could, though. Hurley could throw her around a lot of places.)

Chains rattled. The metal door to the garage slid upward, just a few feet, and a silhouette ducked through.

Sloane quickly stopped thinking about rippling forearms and roughhousing.

“Hey stranger,” Hurley said, a smile in her voice. She strode into the light and lobbed a bottle of ale in Sloane’s direction. “Want one?”

Sloane popped open the bottle and took a cool swig. “You’re a fucking lifesaver.”

“Still nothing?” Hurley asked, angling her chin toward the wagon.

“Can’t crack it. I’ve been at it for an hour already. Hey—” Sloane hesitated, eyes trained on Hurley. “Haircut?”

And maybe it was the ale, or maybe it was the heat, but Sloane could swear she saw a blush creeping across Hurley’s cheeks.

“Yeah, got it cleaned up after work today,” she mumbled, shrugging a shoulder and running a hand across her freshly shaven neck. “You, um . . . you like it?”

Sloane’s tongue felt thick, suddenly. She _loved_ it—the buzzed sides, the tight curls piled on top. “It looks hot.”

That, right there—that was definitely a blush on Hurley’s cheeks.

And then, like deer bolting at the sound of broken twig, they both turned to the wagon and began rattling off theories.

“Could be the fuel filter.”

“Could be a relay failure.”

“Did you check the ignition switch?”

“Do you think it’s the core?”

The next time Sloane looked at the clock, they’d been at it for two hours. They were both begrimed in sweat and grease. Strands of damp hair stuck to Sloane’s neck and forehead. Empty bottles dotted the floor. They’d tried everything.

She stole a glance at Hurley. The halfling was blinking drowsily now, the only sign she’d had a few. Always so grounded. Did that face ever crack, ever lose control? What did she look like when she did? What did those eyes look like with their guard down?

“Sloane?” Hurley was staring at her expectantly. “You gonna hand me that socket?”

Sloane reddened—she’d been caught staring. She quickly dug through the jumbled box of drivers and sockets on the workbench. When she turned to hand off the correct one, Hurley was looking at her intently.

“You’ve got grease on your lip, there,” she said, and reached out a thumb to wipe it away. Sloane flinched at the touch—too sudden, too intimate—then panicked when she saw the regret in Hurley’s eyes.

“Thanks!” she said eagerly, but Hurley was already sliding under the wagon to tinker with some last-ditch solution.

“This is my last idea,” Hurley called out. “If this doesn’t work, we’re out of the running.”

Sloane’s heart sank. “What the hell would we do on race day instead?”

“Watch. Could be fun.”

“Maybe for you. I can’t show my face on that track.”

“Wear your mask, _Raven_. Isn’t that what it’s for?”

“I’m not that stupid. Here’s a better idea: I show up and let you arrest me, we watch from the stands, and then right as the winner crosses the finish line, you help me make a daring escape.”

Hurley slid out from under the wagon. “Girl, if you want me to put you in handcuffs, all you have to do is ask.”

The instant she said it, an image invaded Sloane’s mind that nearly made her knees give way. Her face went slack with arousal. To her horror, Hurley noticed, and the mischievous twinkle in her eyes gave way to despair.

“Sorry, that wasn’t . . . fuck, um . . . pass me another one?”

Sloane eyed the last bottle of ale, but in a moment of wicked inspiration, didn’t reach for it. Her chance had arrived. “Sounds like you’ve already had a few.”

“Come on, Sloane, I’m sorry, it was a terrible joke, I meant—“

“Sounds like somebody’s got their mind in the gutter.”

Hurley gulped audibly. “I—”

Sloane took a step toward Hurley. “You wanna cuff me, huh?” She gave Hurley a playful shove to the solar plexus. “Huh?”

Hurley was smiling now. “You’re messing with me.” She shoved back.

“Huh? You want me in your custody, is that it?” Sloane jabbed lightly at Hurley with her fists. Hurley deflected the soft punches without looking.

“Cut it out! Look, you’re terrible at this—”

“Is that it? _Lieutenant_?”

And then they were falling. The backs of Sloane’s knees made contact with the wagon’s bumper, and in the next instant, her back made contact with the hood. Hurley’s arms shot out just in time, bracing herself over Sloane, palms hitting the wagon with a metallic thump.

The engine roared to life.

Sloane instantly felt the vibration down to her bones. She looked up at Hurley, whose face hovered inches above her own. They were both smiling ear to ear.

“Told you I’d fix it,” Hurley said.

Sloane laughed first, then Hurley. They cackled wildly, victoriously. And somewhere in the middle of the laughter, Sloane realized that Hurley’s hand was cupping her jaw, and Hurley’s face was closer than it had been before, and Hurley’s lips were pressing into her own. She was being kissed.

Sloane lost herself in a moment of freefall before she realized, with a jolt of panic, that she better start kissing back.

Sloane let her head drop back onto the hood of the wagon, surrendering her mouth to Hurley’s, pinned between her hot, roving tongue and the vibrating engine. Heat shot between Sloane’s legs. Her hips rolled upward of their own volition. A moan poured out of Hurley.

Sloane had never heard her make a sound like that—never known her to need anything as badly as she seemed, suddenly, to need Sloane.

Hurley’s fingers were everywhere at once, creeping beneath Sloane’s shirt, sweeping over her ribs, caressing the small of her back. Sloane needed desperately to be naked. She sat up, peeled her sweat-soaked shirt over her head, and flung it aside. She watched as Hurley’s eyes grew wider than she’d ever seen before.

Hurley drank in the sight of her bare chest like it was the last thing she’d ever see. Sloane watched her rake her eyes over her breasts, gleaming with sweat, then up to her collarbones, back down across her nipples, over her abdomen, to each hip, then up to Sloane’s face, half hidden by hair. Sloane had never shown herself to anyone and gotten a reaction quite like this. What was that feeling bubbling inside her, as she watched Hurley’s jaw fall slack? She wanted to float in it forever.

Hurley raised one hand and hovered it over Sloane’s chest, crackling with the desire to touch. “Can I . . . ?” she asked, her voice small.

Sloane took Hurley’s hand in her own and dragged it across her heart, across her nipple, and down to cup her breast. Hurley exhaled a hot breath and timidly stroked Sloane with a calloused thumb. Sloane’s eyes fluttered closed.

“More,” Sloane begged. Hurley obeyed (so eagerly that Sloane couldn’t help but smile) and took her other breast in her hand. Her palms roamed Sloane’s chest as she brought her lips to Sloane’s earlobe, raking her teeth ever-so-gently across the tender skin there. Sloane felt a wet heat gather between her legs. Her nipples ached. Another caress of the sensitive skin there, and she was gasping into Hurley’s shoulder, boneless.

“I got you,” Hurley said, her low voice like honey, and wrapped her hands around Sloane’s slender biceps, steadying her. Their foreheads met, and Sloane’s dark hair fell like a curtain around them both. Their ragged breaths were suddenly louder than the rumbling engine, closer, needier.

“I’ve . . . wanted this,” Sloane said with effort, her voice almost a groan.

“Yeah?” Hurley swallowed. “You—you’ve been thinking about this?” And then, shyly: “About me?”

Sloane could only nod.

“What . . . What do you think about?”

Sloane huffed out a bashful laugh. But Hurley was on the scent, a new boldness in her voice.

“What have you been thinking about, sweetheart?” she breathed into Sloane’s ear. “You been getting yourself off, thinking of what I’d do for you?” Hurley’s hands rubbed small circles around her hip bones, across her thighs, closer and closer to her throbbing center. Sloane nodded. The confession sent another wave of heat through her core. She was caught, and she loved it; she loved confessing her naughtiness to Hurley.

Hurley clawed at Sloane’s tight, violet trousers. “Could I take these off you?”

Sloane didn’t have to think. “Please.”

Sloane lifted her hips and let Hurley’s deft hands drag the trousers down over her thighs, over her knees, and past her ankles. The hands crept up to hook beneath Sloane’s knees, holding one aloft so Hurley could plant hungry kisses on the soft skin there. Sloane shivered. With lips still pressed to her inner thigh, Hurley’s eyes met Sloane’s, alight with a deviousness, dripping with hunger and delight.

Those eyes crawled up her thigh to take in Sloane’s exposed, wet cunt. Sloane could swear she felt the heat of that gaze like it was a touch. She felt defenseless, vulnerable.

“Put your fingers in me,” Sloane pleaded, as steadily as she could. “Please. I need it.”

Hurley, eyelids now heavy from the sheer intensity of her arousal, nodded, then brought the ball of her hand to Sloane’s swollen clit and began to rub in wide, slow circles.

Sloane wailed. She watched, transfixed, as Hurley slid a finger inside her dripping entrance, deeper and deeper, down to the knuckle.

“More,” Sloane begged.

Hurley took a breath to steady herself and obliged, slipping a second finger inside. “How does that feel?”

“It’s fucking perfect, baby, don’t stop,” Sloane moaned.

Hurley’s other hand found Sloane’s hipbone and held it against the still-rumbling hood. The pressure felt divine. But there was one place where it would feel even better. Sloane reached down and took Hurley’s wrist in her hand, then guided it up and across so that her forearm rested on Sloane’s sternum. She was now pinned beneath Hurley’s arm.

Hurley’s pupils blew wide. “Like this?” she asked, her voice a throaty whisper, and pressed her arm into Sloane’s chest just a little bit harder.

Oh, that was it. Sloane moaned her approval. She let her arms fall back and above her head, resting them on the hood. Air skated across the now-exposed undersides of her breasts, and her nipples hardened anew.

Hurley noticed. “Fuck,” she groaned, and dipped her head to take one of Sloane’s nipples in her mouth. The touch was reverent, an act of adoration. Deep inside her, Hurley’s crooked fingers kneaded her sweet spot while a calloused palm rubbed against her clit. The friction was delicious. Sloane writhed.

Hurley smirked and held her arm steady as Sloane’s body twisted in pleasure.

“I’m gonna make you come, that alright?”

Sloane’s vision swam. “Fuck, yes, please.”

Hurley’s hand worked on her faster, harder. Each thrust of her palm had Sloane seeing stars. Her thighs shook. Her cum pooled on the hood beneath her. Above her, Hurley’s brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips parted and wet. Her eyes drank in Sloane’s every shudder. Her hands responded to every gasp, every moan. Never had Sloane been ravished, wrecked, worshipped by someone so devoted to seeing her orgasm. Sloane’s cunt tensed around Hurley’s fingers. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She came, gasping, tears running down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

Hurley stayed inside her until the last aftershocks of her orgasm subsided. Sloane felt Hurley’s fingers ease out of her, gingerly. And then, impossibly, Sloane was being lifted. Eyes closed, she was dimly aware of being draped over Hurley’s shoulder and carried gently across the room, then laid down on something soft—the cot Hurley kept in the corner of the garage, but never seemed to use. She felt her long legs being gathered and tucked onto the thin mattress, and a gentle hand roll her onto her side. Her cunt throbbed softly. She was adrift in a haze of pleasure.

The rumble of the engine quieted. Sloane cracked one eye and spied Hurley across the room wringing water from a clean rag. She returned to the cot, eased down beside Sloane, and pressed the rag to Sloane’s hip. She shivered.

“Too cold?”

“No,” Sloane replied. “Feels nice.” It did—the room was unquestionably hotter than it had been, and the cool rag felt like a blessing. “What’s that for?”

 “Cleaning you up.” Hurley’s voice was as soft as her strokes. “Turns out, rolling around naked on top of a wagon gets you pretty dirty.”

Sloane laughed bashfully at that, and then fell quiet as Hurley cleaned the grime from her shoulderblades, the small of her back, her buttocks. When she’d finished there, she nudged Sloane’s thighs. “Can I?” she asked. Sloane rolled onto her back and parted her thighs, and Hurley cleaned up the stickiness between her legs with care. Sloane’s cunt throbbed again.

“Hey,” she said, reaching up to cup Hurley’s cheek in her hand. “That was . . . really good for me, just now.” Hurley’s cheek warmed beneath her hand. “But you know what?”

Hurley turned her head and pressed a kiss to Sloane’s palm. “What, beautiful?”

Sloane grinned. “I think it’s your turn.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This sweltering night's not over: Sloane and Hurley resolve weeks of sexual tension, part two.

Hurley hadn’t planned for this, never thought to. Sloane had been coming on to her for weeks, teasing her, but Hurley was used to being teased.

All the pretty human girls and she-elves teased Hurley, who was terrible at hiding a crush. She was a safe target—too short, too burly to be an object of desire, in their eyes. Sloane’s flirting felt different, but Hurley knew better than to get her hopes up.

But the joke was on her, it seemed, as a lascivious finger slinked its way down Hurley’s neck.

“I think it’s your turn,” Sloane had said.

This night already felt like a dream—watching Sloane come like that on the hood of their wagon was nearly enough for Hurley. But as she looked down at Sloane—black hair wreathing her angular face, lips swollen, that exquisite body aching to please her—she knew she couldn’t turn this offer down.

Hurley slid her shirt over her head, skin prickling, chest taught with anticipation. Sloane practically purred and ran a hand across Hurley’s abdomen.

“Don’t stop,” she said, fingers tugging at Hurley’s trousers. Hurley cracked a shy smile and slipped those off, too. She hesitated beside the cot, wrapped in Sloane’s hungry gaze, feeling somehow more naked than she ever had. Sloane’s eyes froze on a spot just below the thatch of hair between Hurley’s legs. “Fu-uck,” Sloane whispered.

Hurley looked down. _Oh_. She was soaked. The insides of her thighs were dripping with wetness. A thrill shot through her. She liked that Sloane could see just how aroused she’d made her. She eased onto the cot, bare thighs sliding across Sloane’s, and laid back on her elbows, beckoning Sloane to her with a twitch of her chin.

“Come kiss me.” Sloane did.

Moments before, on top of the wagon, Hurley’s mouth had been the one in charge, drawing groans out of Sloane with a scrape of her teeth and a swipe of her tongue. Now Sloane called the shots. Hurley surrendered eagerly. A little too eagerly for Sloane, apparently—as Hurley’s head lolled from side to side, woozy with desire, Sloane grabbed a fistful of curls and held tight. Hurley got the message: She was to keep still. She melted into Sloane’s mouth, which pulled away each time she began to lose herself in the kiss, causing Hurley to whimper and arc upwards to find Sloane’s lips again.

Hurley gasped when Sloane broke the kiss for good. The half-elf’s eyes glinted. “Show me how you touch yourself,” she commanded.

Hurley swallowed. Oh, _this_ fantasy. How many weeks had Hurley longed for this very sight, humiliated herself on this very cot, imagining what it would be to masturbate while Sloane watched? Her hand crept to her cunt. Sloane sat back, looking diabolical, utterly pleased with her view. Hurley began to run her thumb over the hood of her clit. It was instantly rigid. Hurley’s eyelids fluttered.

There was so much she kept guarded, so much of her solitary life she kept private. But here, in their hideaway, with her legs spread and every inch of her exposed, vulnerable, desired, she felt herself opening. She wanted Sloane to watch this, wanted to teach her how she liked it.

When Sloane couldn’t stand to sit back a moment longer, she crept forward on her hands and knees, ducked her head, and nudged Hurley’s thumb aside.

Goddam, Hurley loved having her clit sucked. A whine poured out of her that, if she weren’t half-delirious, would have embarrassed her. She bucked into Sloane’s mouth. She could feel cum and hot saliva dripping down the curve of her ass. Sloane’s tongue roved from the base of her vulva to her clit and back, over and over, driving Hurley to the brink. Her hands slid beneath Hurley’s raised hips, holding her pelvis aloft and bringing her own face further into Hurley’s cunt. Hurley cried out.

“Fuck, baby,” Hurley moaned. “I’m so close, I—”

“Not yet you aren’t.”

Suddenly, Sloane’s mouth was gone. The next thing Hurley knew, she’d been pulled upright and hoisted up onto her knees. She was now kneeling over Sloane’s prone body, dizzy and on the brink of orgasm. Beneath her, Sloane slid so that her face hovered below Hurley’s cunt. And now, was she . . . oh god, she was fucking Hurley with her tongue. Hurley’s thighs shook.

“Put your hands on that wall,” Sloane gasped from beneath her. Hurley extended her hands and braced herself against the cool bricks. She knew that if she looked down, the mere sight of Sloane’s mouth working on her would send her over the edge, and she needed just a second more of this, to make this last just a moment longer.

Sloane moaned, and it felt like the engine was alive beneath her again. Hurley ground her hips into Sloane’s mouth. A bead of sweat fell from her jaw. Nails dug into her thighs. She couldn’t hold back any longer. She looked down.

Her lover was staring up at her, eyes flooded with longing. It was as if she could see inside Hurley’s mind, see every naughty thing Hurley had ever imagined on this bed, hear every dirty thought Hurley had left unsaid, into her most private fantasies, her sweetest and most humiliating desires.

Hurley gave herself over at last, riding Sloane’s face through wave after wave of pleasure, groaning through gritted teeth until her jaw fell slack from the intensity of her orgasm.

She tumbled backwards, spent. She gasped for breath as her body quieted. She pawed at Sloane’s legs, wanting to praise her, to thank her, but unable to speak. Sloane understood, it seemed, and crawled to Hurley’s side. Their eyes met.

Sloane’s lips still carried Hurley’s wetness. Strands of hair clung to her temples. The tips of her ears, just faintly pointed, were rosy. She felt impossibly soft in the places where their bodies now touched.

“I’m a fool,” Hurley murmured when she found her tongue again.

Sloane’s fingers caressed her cheek. “You? Why?”

“I had no idea.” Hurley swallowed, struggling to find the words. “That you wanted this. I thought it was me, all in my head. I thought you . . . ” She had to laugh, looking down at how Sloane’s legs were now draped over her own, possessively. No; definitely not all in her head.

Sloane laughed, too, and the sound was like music. “How’s this,” she said. “From now on, I’ll just tell you: ‘I want you to rip off my clothes and fuck me senseless.’”

Hurley groaned for what was, surely, the thousandth time that night. She wished the roof was gone; she wanted to lie here on her back and stare at the stars until dawn came. She wanted to doze until their second wind arrived and make Sloane come again and again, hear those sounds again, find new places to touch and kiss.

She knew they couldn’t linger. She knew that soon, she’d make the lonely walk back home, ducking out a few minutes after Sloane so as not to be seen leaving together. If only she could stop the clock here, while their bodies still buzzed with pleasure.

A minute longer wouldn’t hurt. Hurley curled into her lover and nestled her head beneath Sloane’s chin, content to feel small.


End file.
